My SoulMate My SweetHeart Pt2

The day is nothing short of a disaster.

By the time I get to my desk, my boss, Mr. Greaves, is already waiting for me with a sour look plastered across his face. His signature arched eyebrows are drawn so high, they practically disappear into his receding hairline.

“Emma,” he says, his voice dripping with condescension as I try to sneak past him into my cubicle. “A word.”

I stop mid-step, my stomach sinking. “Of course, Mr. Greaves,” I say, forcing a tight-lipped smile.

He gestures for me to follow him into his office. I set my bag down at my desk and trudge after him, dreading whatever he’s about to say.

The moment the door closes behind me, he launches into it. “This is the third time this month you’ve been late. I understand we all have lives outside of work, but this is a professional environment, and I expect you to act like it.”

“I’m really sorry, sir,” I say quickly. “It won’t happen again.”

“It had better not,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “Because if it does, you won’t have this job anymore. Do I make myself clear?”

I nod, my cheeks burning with humiliation. “Crystal clear.”

He dismisses me with a wave of his hand, and I slink back to my desk, the weight of his words heavy on my shoulders.

The rest of the day is a blur of spreadsheets, emails, and passive-aggressive comments from Mr. Greaves. By lunchtime, I’ve barely managed to make a dent in my workload, and the knot in my stomach has only grown tighter.

As I sit at my desk, staring blankly at my computer screen, I can’t help but think about this morning. About Nathan Carter. About how he’d looked at me with a mix of amusement and concern, about the business card that he handed to me. It’s still tucked safely in my bag, but I haven’t dared look at it again.

What would a CEO like him even want with someone like me?

The thought lingers for a moment before I shove it aside. There’s no time for daydreaming. Not when I’m barely holding onto the life I already have.

I watch the clock hit 5:30 and I'm instantly up and packing away, dreading what comes next. After everything is put away or in my bag, I grab it and head out of the door. My heart races again, as I begin to rush to my next job. The one that starts in half an hour, and if I'm late, it's yet another lecture.

The phone is in my hand as I walk quickly down the street, it means I can quickly check the time. My shift at The Velvet Room, a high-end gentlemen’s club downtown, starts at 5:50. It’s not the kind of job I ever thought I’d have, but it pays more in one night than I make in a week at Harper & Grant. But even that doesn't pay enough to cover my rent.

Rent doesn’t pay itself, and between student loans, groceries, and the occasional splurge on things like toothpaste, I don’t have the luxury of being picky. Plus, I was young and foolish and got myself into too much debt to ignore.

The Velvet Room isn’t sleazy, at least, not in the way people expect when they hear “strip club.” It’s more of a lap-dancing lounge, upscale and exclusive. The clientele wear suits and sip expensive whiskey while the girls wear lingerie that costs more than my monthly rent.

I'm one of the better dancers so I'm often asked to keep the VIP tables happy, and sometimes I flirt just enough to earn bigger tips. That’s where the real money is. But it’s also a job I can’t afford to screw up. Sylvia, my manager, doesn’t tolerate lateness, or excuses.

“Emma,” she’d said last week, her sharp eyes boring into mine, “if you clock in late one more time, don’t bother showing up again. I don’t care how much the customers like you.”

Her words echo in my head as I weave through the crowded streets, clutching my bag tightly. The Velvet Room is only a few blocks away now, but the clock on my phone says 5:45. I can’t be late. Not tonight.

I pick up my pace, my heels clicking against the pavement. The winter air is cold, my hair whipping around my face as I hurry.

And then, as I step off the curb without looking, it happens.

Again

The blare of a car horn shatters the air.

I freeze, my head snapping up just in time to see the same sleek black car screeching to a halt, its tires skidding against the asphalt.

For the second time today, I’m standing in the middle of the street, staring at the car like an idiot.

The driver’s door opens, and out steps Nathan Carter, looking just as sharp as he did this morning. His tie is gone now, the top two buttons of his shirt are now also undone. I notice that his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He looks more relaxed but no less intimidating.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he says, striding toward me.

I blink at him, my heart pounding. “I—I’m so sorry! I wasn’t paying attention!”

“You don’t say,” he mutters, his stormy gray eyes narrowing. He stops a few feet away, looking me up and down. “What is it with you and stepping into traffic?”

My cheeks flush. “I didn’t mean to! I’m just … late. Again.”

His gaze drops to the bag I’m clutching, where the strap of my work outfit is peeking out. His brow furrows. “Where are you rushing to this time?”

I hesitate, knowing exactly how this is going to sound. “Uh … work?”

“Where?”

I open my mouth to lie, but the words won’t come. Finally, I blurt out, “The Velvet Room.”

His expression shifts, his eyes widening slightly in recognition. “The Velvet Room? The club?”

“Yes,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he just stares at me, like he’s trying to figure me out. Then, to my surprise, he lets out a soft laugh. “You work there?”

“Not like that,” I say quickly, the heat rising to my face. “I’m not a dancer or anything. I just … serve drinks,” I lie, trying to save myself any more embarrsement.

“Relax,” he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not judging you. I’ve been there a few times. It’s … nice.”

I blink, taken aback. “You’ve been there?”

“Not recently,” he says with a shrug. “But yeah. My clients like it.”

Of course. Because why wouldn’t Nathan Carter, CEO of Carter Holdings, frequent one of the most exclusive clubs in the city?

I shake my head, trying to push the thought aside. “I really have to go,” I say, glancing at my phone. 5:47. “If I’m late, my manager will kill me.”

Nathan glances down the street, then back at me. “Get in.”

“What?”

“Get in,” he repeats, nodding toward his car. “I’ll drive you.”

“I—I don’t think that’s—”

“Emma,” he says, cutting me off. The way he says my name, firm but not unkind, makes my stomach flip. “You’re clearly already running late to be running in front of cars, again. Do you really want to waste more time arguing with me?”

I hesitate, my mind racing. On one hand, this is insane. On the other hand … he’s right.

“Okay,” I say finally.

He opens the passenger door for me, and I slide in, my heart pounding as he rounds the car and gets back in.

The engine purrs to life, and we pull into traffic.

“You know,” he says after a moment, glancing at me with a faint smile, “most people only need to be rescued from traffic once in a day.”

I laugh nervously, clutching my bag. “Guess I’m not most people.”

“No,” he says, his voice soft. “You’re definitely not.”

His words hang in the air between us, warm and heavy, as the lights of the city blur past. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself wonder if maybe, just maybe, today wasn’t such a disaster after all.